


Get Down

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Boot Worship, Degradation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Sexualized Violence, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26493145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He is not nice. He is not kind. He will take what he wants, and leave you in pieces.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Get Down

It’s like this, as you wait for Walker to come back. 

You’re already on your knees for him, have been for minutes, hours, could be days, all you know is your knees are numb and your body aches from the effort of keeping still; it aches and there’s a trembling in your thighs from keeping them together, keeping your feet folded under you. 

You kneel, and when he comes back bloodied after a job gone wrong, he doesn’t want you on your knees, he wants your face on the floor. He plants a foot in your ribs and shoves, and you go down _hard._ He tells you to strip for him, there on the ground, and you shiver out of your clothes but it’s _difficult_ and it’s _slow_ when you’re keeping as much of yourself on the ground as possible, keeping yourself low for him. And when you’re naked for him, when there is nothing left to hide, he prods at you with his foot until you’re on your belly, until your cheek is pressed to the ground, little puffs of dust rising with every breath, sticking to your lips. 

He kicks your thighs apart, ungentle, and that’ll be a pair of bruises tomorrow. Today they’re already twin aches, bone deep. The toe of his boot prods at your cunt and it’s filthy, it’s awful, it should make you cringe but instead you’re chasing it, aren’t you; he sees it and his laugh is poisoned honey. He presses harder until it’s past the point of discomfort, until you _do_ cry with it; he presses and holds until your first real tears leave circles in the dust. 

And if the press of his boot was pain, its removal is a stab to the heart. It pulls a gasp from you like your insides are unwinding. You hear him walk a circle around you until he stops, toes slick, in front of your face. And he doesn’t speak, only nudges at your lips with his foot until you get the idea, until you open your mouth enough to poke a hesitant tongue out and lick. Clean him, lick his boot, remove every trace of yourself. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t demand that you clean the slick spot off the floor. 

And _god_ he's hard, has been since before he walked in, his cock a thick line clearly visible under his trousers. What he does, then, is he opens his fly to draw himself out, stroking once, twice.

“You’re going to take it, and you’re going to scream for me.” He gets down behind you then, pulling you back and onto his cock without preamble; he doesn’t even have to make an effort and you’re totally helpless, knees scraping and gathering grit as you struggle to get them underneath you, to get into position, but he drapes himself over you like a beast, shoving your shoulders down until your face is back on the floor where it belongs. 

You skitter and slide across the floor with every thrust; he holds himself up with the hand fisted in your hair, gripping so tightly it shoots sparks across your scalp. Your cheek scrapes against the floor, grit driving into soft skin and you will have bruises and cuts there; you’ll touch your cheek in the mirror and press at the little divots where gravel made its home. And all the while he’s pounding into you as hard as he can manage. It’s a good thing you’re already slick for him because he doesn’t even spare a thought for your comfort, only chases pleasure with you as the most convenient place to put his cock. 

And _fuck,_ he’s close enough that he starts to snarl and thrust out of rhythm, hips leaving strange bruises as his hands clench tighter, as his nails leave little bloody crescents on your scalp. He presses and holds himself inside in one last long thrust, driving an ache inside you that touches deeper than you thought he could reach. He presses and holds, and when he finally withdraws you feel his seed slithering down your thigh. 

He looks at you then, lying there smeared with tears and semen and your own slickness, and he considers, he judges. Doesn’t help you to come because _that is not for you._ He leaves, comes back with wet towels. Presses a chocolate to your lips and if his fingers linger, if he hooks the tips just the tiniest bit into your mouth, that’s his business.


End file.
